Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (20 page)

The door opened and Inspector Deacon studied Jacques Renard with interest. It was unlikely that the young man himself was aware that he was being so closely scrutinised, the inspector having perfected the art of appearing nonchalant when in reality he was feeling nothing short of a pent up excitement. The line ‘the woman doth protest too much’ had sprung unbidden to his mind at Madame Renard’s fervent denial of an attachment between her son and the deceased. Sergeant Perkins, he noticed, seemed not to be so expert in the matter of concealing his own emotions. The inspector was therefore thankful that, for the most part, the young man would have his back to the sergeant, and that the inspector alone would be witness to Sergeant Perkins’ assortment of smirks and grimaces. Good heavens, the man had already stubbed his pencil on his notebook and snapped the lead.

As Jacques Renard came into the room, the inspector was somewhat surprised to find Rose Simpson following in his wake. He had expected that she would accompany Mary Jennings, but not the proprietor’s son. Inspector Deacon took in the young man’s appearance. Dark-haired and bespectacled, there were the first tell-tale signs of a dark shadow around his mouth and cheeks that gave him something of a dishevelled look, at odds with his clothes, which were both good and fashionable in cut but somewhat creased. This, together with his hair, which stuck up in tufts, was the consequence of lounging so indifferently on the sofa. Yet the inspector noted that his eyes were bright and his shoes well-polished and tended to the view that, under normal circumstances, Jacques Renard would lean towards being well turned out. 

However, this was anything but a usual situation in which Jacques Renard found himself. Generally of a cheery and affable disposition, due in part to an inner confidence, it was now obvious that he was ill at ease. As if to illustrate the point, beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead and the skin above his upper lip was also moist and glistened in the electric light.

Inspector Deacon began by asking the usual routine questions. When Monsieur Renard replied, his voice was something of a surprise to both policemen. Sergeant Perkins, in particular, had expected to hear heavily accented English fall from the man’s lips, similar to that which they had heard spoken by his mother. Instead they discovered his voice was more that of a man who had been to Oxford rather than that of a Parisian. Inspector Deacon, in full view of Jacques Renard as he was, hid his astonishment well. Sergeant Perkins, not hindered by the same constraints, sat for a moment or two with his mouth wide open. The inspector was reminded of some words of wisdom that a great aunt had once bestowed upon his younger self. Something along the lines of it being rude to stare, but if one really must, at least close one’s mouth to prevent the possibility of swallowing a fly.    

‘I understand that this must be distressing for you, Monsieur Renard. The deceased was a particular friend of yours, I believe.’

‘Was she?’ Jacques Renard looked first surprised and then decidedly flustered. ‘Oh, I suppose she was in a way.’

‘I was led to believe that you and Miss Beckett were rather fond of each other.’

‘Well, I suppose we were after a fashion,’ Jacques said rallying. ‘I took her to the pictures once or twice, but we weren’t really courting. We made each other laugh, that’s all. I liked her because she spoke her mind and didn’t care a jot what people thought of her, even my mother. You don’t know how refreshing it is to find a girl like that.’

‘So the two of you had formed an attachment of sorts?’

‘Oh, nothing as grand as all that, Inspector. A little flirtation, that’s all it added up to. No great love affair. I wasn’t the least in love with Miss Beckett and she wasn’t the least in love with me. When she wasn’t putting on an act or sulking, she was a cheeky, fun sort of a girl to pass the time of day with. You needn’t read any more into it than that.’

The inspector remained silent. Jacques fidgeted in his chair. He looked first at the ceiling, then at the floor, following which he decide to appeal to Rose.

‘You tell the inspector, how it was, Rose. I daresay he’ll listen to you.’

‘Miss Simpson is here on sufferance, Monsieur Renard,’ Inspector Deacon said sharply. ‘She will not be contributing to this interview, will you Miss Simpson?’ He bestowed on Rose a look which suggested that he was not to be tested on this issue. She returned his gaze with an affected look of innocence.

‘I say, I think that’s a bit harsh, Inspector. Much better to let Rose say a word or two. She’ll be able to confirm that I’m telling you the truth. I mean to say, it seems an awful shame you wasting your time on me when you’ve got a murderer to catch.’

‘How we choose to go about our enquiries is up to us, Monsieur Renard.’

‘Oh, absolutely, Inspector,’ Jacques said quickly. ‘You know best of course. I’m not trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs.’

‘I’m glad we are agreed on that point. Now, if we may proceed, I – ’

‘Look here, Inspector, I think we may have started off on the wrong foot. It’s my fault, I know, and I’d like to put it right if I can. What say, we start again?’

‘All right, as you wish.’ The inspector concealed a sigh. Jacques Renard was beginning to try his patience. The fellow probably meant well, but in his experience they were often the type to prove the most infuriating to interview.

‘Well, there was a time when I had been rather fond of Miss Beckett, and she of me. It all came about more by chance than anything else. It sounds rather awful to say it now, but at the time we, that’s to say, she and I thought it would be frightfully funny to see how Mama reacted to her darling boy to all intents and purposes stepping out with one of her employees. And not her favourite employee either, but one that was quite happy to give her a bit of cheek. You’ve met my mother, Inspector. She holds me on something of a pedestal. Nothing is too good for her son, and certainly no woman. It really is frightfully draining to be worshiped in such a way. I could do no wrong. So I suppose I was tempted to put it to the test. Sylvia … Miss Beckett and I thought it would be a dreadful hoot to see how Mama reacted if she knew we’d gone to the pictures together. But then, as it happened, we found that we rubbed along quite well.’

‘I see, so at the time of her death – ’

‘I had seen very little of Sylvia for some time. My mother had packed me off to Harridges on the pretext of learning the trade, although I think it had rather more to do with keeping me away from what she perceived as Miss Beckett’s clutches. Luckily for my mother and all her machinations, I found that I rather enjoyed it at Harridges. I still do, come to that. The people are a jolly decent crowd. We get up to no end of fun, I can tell you.’ Jacques bent forward and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘If I’m honest, I much prefer working in a grand department store like Harridges to working in a small boutique like this one. It’s rather nice not having my mother watch my every move, it gets a bit much for a chap. But you’d better not let my mother hear me say that. There would be all hell to pay.’

‘And Miss Beckett, how did she take the prospect of not seeing you so often?’

‘Rather well, Inspector. I thought she’d give me no end of grief. I’d been putting off telling her that I had … well … met another young lady as it happens. What Sylvia and I had …well, it was all only a bit of fun when all was said and done, as I’ve just been telling you. But I was dreadfully afraid that she might not see it quite like that. I thought she might have been bitterly disappointed that there had been a falling off of my affections, so to speak. I knew that she’d more than likely give me the rough end of her tongue and, to tell the truth, I’d rather worked myself up into a blue funk over the whole business.’

‘I see. But when you told Miss Beckett, you discovered that she wasn’t overly upset by the news?’

‘That’s right. It was yesterday as it happens, or should I say the day before yesterday, as it’s passed the witching hour?’ Jacques said, glancing at a rather splendid gold pocket watch, which Inspector Deacon could not help but think must have cost a pretty penny.

‘The day before the fashion event?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. I was out on an errand and decided to pop in to see how Mama was faring, getting ready for the grand event and all. Miss Beckett was in the shop alone. I didn’t notice that at first, otherwise I might have turned tail and not gone in. Anyway, she said her bit about me neglecting her, but I had the impression that she said it because she thought she ought to, rather than because she was particularly annoyed. It was all rather good humoured, our conversation. We teased and ribbed one another something rotten.’ Jacques paused a moment and stared into the distance. ‘You know, I’d forgotten how much fun Sylvia could be. I remember thinking it at the time. Then she said something that rather took the wind out of my sails.’

‘Oh? And what was that?’

‘She said something about having got herself a proper young man, one that was up in the world and had prospects. I can’t say I fully believed her at the time. She was a one for exaggerating and … well, I supposed she was trying to make me feel jealous. Now I come to think of it, I suppose I was a bit. Of course, I know I had no right to feel like that. But it was the way she said it, it had me feeling a little intrigued. I do remember her saying that she could do better than the likes of me and no mistake, which riled me rather.’

Inspector Deacon inclined to the view that the young man had got what he deserved. A suitable retort sprung readily enough to his lips, but he refrained from uttering it. Instead he said:

‘But you believed she might have been telling the truth? Well, it’s certainly worth investigating. Make a note of that if you will, Sergeant.’

‘If anyone knows if she had a young man, it would be Miss Jennings,’ said Rose, contributing to the conversation for the first time. ‘I’m inclined to think she may have done. Something she said to me last night makes me think – ’

‘Good heavens, I almost forgot you were there, Miss Simpson, you were so quiet. Not like you at all.’ There was a twinkle in the inspector’s eye, which was not lost on Rose. Much to her embarrassment, she felt herself blush. ‘Now, what was that you were saying, Miss Simpson? Miss Beckett spoke of her young man to you?’

‘No, Inspector, not as such. It’s just thinking back, I remembered something she said.’

‘Well, out with it. It’s not like you to hold back, Miss Simpson.’

‘Thank you, Inspector, you are very kind,’ replied Rose rather primly. ‘I think on second thoughts I might try and work things out in my own mind before I say anything. I should so hate to waste your time.’

Inspector Deacon raised his eyebrows and gave her a suspicious look. That he suspected that she wanted to investigate the matter further on her own, Rose had little doubt. It was contrary to his wishes and expressly what he had asked her not to do. She wondered if he would take umbrage. There was a moment or two of an uncomfortable silence while it seemed that they all awaited the inspector’s response. Fortunately for Rose, Inspector Deacon decided not to press her, and returned his attention instead to Jacques Renard. 

‘Monsieur Renard, by you own admission, you knew the deceased well. Did she have any enemies, do you know? Can you think of anyone who may have wished to do her harm?’

‘No, I can’t, Inspector. I’ve been racking my brains all evening. I can’t imagine who’d have wanted to kill Sylvia. She could be damned disagreeable when she put her mind to it, but to ….’ He passed a hand over his hair in an agitated fashion. ‘I feel pretty shaken up by it all, I can tell you.’

‘I’d like you to take me through the events of this evening, if you will,’ said Inspector Deacon, changing tack. ‘I think I’m correct in saying that you arrived late to the event?’

‘Yes. I didn’t mean to be quite so late. It hadn’t occurred to me that they’d lock the shop door. I caused quite a racket, I can tell you, banging on it. Mary … Miss Jennings had to come and open it for me. It was frightfully embarrassing having everyone turn around in their seats and stare at me. Damned humiliating, I can tell you. I scurried off and as good as hid behind one of those frightful curtains.’

‘You stood beside one of the drapes,’ said Inspector Deacon slowly. ‘And the candelabra, where was that in relation to where you were standing?’

‘Next to me, as good as,’ admitted Jacques rather guardedly. ‘Look here, Inspector, if you’re trying to insinuate that I had anything to do with that fire – ’

‘I was suggesting no such thing,’ the inspector said rather curtly. ‘Pray, do go on.’

‘Well, I stayed where I was for the rest of the show. There was a shortage of chairs, so I couldn’t have sat down, even if I’d wanted to. Anyway, I had a good enough view. For what it’s worth, I thought Sylvia was making a jolly good stab at being a mannequin. She was certainly showing off Marcel’s outfits to their best advantage. Mary handed me a glass of wine, and I remember thinking that the evening was proving far more enjoyable than I thought it would be. I tried to get Marcel … Monsieur Girard’s attention to let him know I thought it was all going well and that the audience liked his outfits. I hoped that I’d have the chance to say a few words to him, but he kept going backwards and forwards from the shop to the storeroom. I remember thinking he couldn’t seem to settle. I daresay he was rather anxious. I know I would have been in his place. It was the first time he had shown any of his designs, you know.’

‘Let’s go on to when Miss Beckett appeared in that silver gown, shall we?’